


Wo Rauch Ist

by CAPSING



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Fire Alarms, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Peter's not Spider-Man in this one either, Wade's very existence adds gazillion warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wo Rauch Ist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Besteck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besteck/gifts).



> This was written for [Besteck](http://besteck.tumblr.com) because she makes me happy.
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who commented, favorited or left a kudos on my stories in 2014!  
> I really, really appreciate each and every one. There's nothing more encouraging than reading someone's comment; it really means so much to me, and eggs me on.
> 
> Source for the prompt is [here](http://iggycat.tumblr.com/post/100539179472/someone-needs-to-write-a-the-fire-alarm-went-off).

Everything in life is about context.

Take underwear, for example.

In a chilly old apartment, when the windows are closed and the curtains are drawn and you’re curled beneath your double duvet, convincing yourself you’re not feeling lonely and that it’s nice to have the blanket all to yourself – in such circumstances, underwear is a fairly reasonable thing to wear.

On a chilly New-York street, however, it’s a whole different matter.

 

Peter's nipples are so hard they could cut through diamonds.

His testicles aren’t doing much better.

 

Not twelve minutes ago, he was climbing Marshmallow Mountain with Finn and Jake – before someone shot a cannon – and he woke up to a smoke-filled apartment and the frantic banging of a firefighter on his front door. He stumbled, coughing and trying not to suffocate, as his eyes stung and his head swam. As soon as he managed to open the door, she grabbed him like a lobster – and after clearing that there’s no one else to rescue – shoved him down the stairs, telling him to keep calm and exit the building quickly.

 

And now he’s shivering on the street, keeping to the sidelines next to his neighbours – strangers that live next door, really – head cast downwards, feeling pathetic and small. The other attendants all look in much better shape – they’re all wearing pants, for starters. He can see them all chattering excitedly; Mrs. Álvarez and her wife wear a matching pj set (the schmoopy kind, with cliché’d phrases and little pink hearts). Mr. Sanders is holding his cat – a charming thing that yodels every night at four AM without fail – like a priceless treasure; the cat buries his claws into his forearms, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. There’s sirens blaring directly into Peter’s growing migraine; there’s shouting from the firefighters as they run around.

Peter watches the burning building two doors down the street, and wishes he could step closer just to get warm.

 

“Is it just me, or is it hot in here?”

Peter feels himself stiffen in dread. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve to this mortification –

He turns to stand in front of Mr. Wilson from the flat upstairs, and his mouth goes dry.

 

Their first meeting is rather memorable.  
Peter was just about to fall head-first right into the box he was carrying – marked as ‘Dishes’ but weighing him down like a box filled with rocks – when an inexplicable force saved him from a broken nose.

Peter honestly didn’t expect much when he moved out of his aunt and uncle’s – except maybe having the liberty of not locking his bedroom for some ‘me-time’ – and surely not for the sight that greeted him when he looked up.

The arm that held him by his ragged hoodie has the biceps of a god – or at least a professional wrestler. It pulled him back slowly, letting him regain his footing, while the other arm tugged the box from his hands. Peter felt his arms crying thanks to the mysterious stranger, a bald, bulky man who seemed to be in his early thirties.     

“Watch it,” the stranger grinned, and Peter eyes couldn’t decide if they should focus on the dimples adorning his scarred cheeks or on those bright blue eyes.

“Uhem,” Peter muttered, “thank you.”

“No problem, baby-boy,” the man tucked the box close to his body.

“Where to?”

And he easily walked after Peter, helping him to set this box and seven others, chattering about the previous tenant who smelled like moth-balls and always had his garbage bags leaking all over the stairs and never cleaned that shit up.

 

You’d think Peter seize the opportunity given to him by a higher power, but Peter’s always been bad at talking to people he finds attractive (so he has a thing for bald muscular men and for blue eyes; sue him). This time was no different. His conversation skills thinned down to monosyllabic words, and three hours after Mr. Wilson’s gone he was still beating himself up for not offering him coffee.

He kept telling himself he’ll do it tomorrow –and then just the next day – and here they are, seven months later, and Peter didn’t thank him properly and doesn’t even know his first name.

 

You’d think you’d need a first name before seeing someone in their underwear.

More specifically, their gaudy leopard-patterned thong, with a red lace trimming that leave exactly nothing to imagination.

 

Peter’s suddenly all for the freezing wind that bites his skin.  
Sperm count? It could be negative for all he cares right now.

 

“-pothermia, you’re turning blue! So unless you’re planning to break through as a the cracker version of Ice Cube –“ he finally catches on, dazed as Mr. Wilson wraps an orange-shock-blanket around his shoulders, looking far too amused for a man wearing nothing but his underwear and a thin red tank-top while it’s barely sixty degrees outside.

 

“Thanks,” Peter says to Mr. Wilson’s fluffy pink bunny slippers, blushing fiercely. The slippers stare up at him, cross-eyed and adorable.

 “Wouldn’t want my favorite neighbor to freeze up,” Mr. Wilson grins at him, “another Mr. Miller might show up to trash the lobby again.” He nudges his calloused knuckles against Peter’s cheek in a friendly gesture, and the touch sends a shiver all the way down to Peter’s frozen toes.

Peter face twist into a smile, his usual reaction to distress, but Mr. Wilson doesn’t appear to need him to participate in this one-sided conversation, just serve as an audience. Peter thinks that if he’ll open his mouth again he’ll throw up all over the place, so it suits him just fine.

*

Thirty three minutes later, when Peter’s feet are just numb meat sack attached to him by bone and skin, they’re finally allowed back into their building. The fire – caused by a gas leak, the result of a sloppy yearly inspection – has been put out, and other then some minor property damage and two people who suffered from minor smoke inhalation, no one was hurt.

 

Mr. Wilson follows Peter to his door. It’s uncomfortable, as a paramedic took Peter’s blanket from him two minutes ago, and Peter’s scrawny physique has left him feeling bare and inadequate.  
It’s a double-edged sword, to be both attracted to a different physique than his own, and yet be embarrassed by comparison.  
Peter tried the gym just once, before running away from sneering jocks and the judgmental eyes of fit ladies who deemed him unworthy to occupy the same bench as them. His body-image was never in a great shape itself – it didn’t need to add the mocking looks he got for picking the 5Ibs weights.

 

“Well, that’s you,” Mr. Wilson says as Peter forces himself not to cross his arms against his mostly-hairless chest and fold into himself like a distressed hedgehog. “It was nice catching up!”

“T-thanks for the blanket,” Peter manages, attempting not to break eye contact. He knows now is the perfect opportunity to make amends and finally offer proper thanks, but his heart is racing in his chest and his tongue refuses to shape even one more word.

“Sure thing, sweetcheeks!”

He shouldn’t, but he still watches Mr. Wilson’s ass as he climbs to stairs up to his own apartment, whistling, clueless.

 

Sinners always get punished for their sins eventually. Peter is punished two seconds afterwards, when he finds out procrastination doesn’t pay off – he really should have called that locksmith four months ago, because now he’s locked outside his apartment.

He struggles against the handle, but he knows it’s useless.

 

“Something wrong?” He turns and startles; Mr. Wilson is a hair’s breadth away – Peter must’ve been too distracted to hear him coming downstairs. Very distracted, considering that one creaking step –

“It’s locked.” He answers blankly, hand still grasping the handle.

“That’s shitty. Didn’t bring your keys with?”

“Does it  _look_  like I’ve brought my keys with me?” he snaps, before releasing a deep sigh.

“Sorry, it’s just – I’m – I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Mr. Wilson shrugs his wide, gorgeous shoulders. “Come on, you can crash at my place until morning, then you could call a locksmith.”

“I – I couldn’t –“ Peter stammers, “You’ve already –“

 

But a minute later he’s ushered throughout the magic door, into Mr. Wilson’s apartment.

The first thing that comes into Peter’s mind is that he must be the first person to cross dimensions and step into an IKEA catalogue. Everything is in its proper place; it's packed, yet orderly. The coffee table sends out a lens flare like J.J. Abrams is directing it (quite impressive, considering it’s made out of wood). There’s not a dust bunny at sight, no crumpled tissues or strewn wrinkled papers.

Peter suddenly feels a lot better about not inviting Mr. Wilson over, because this apartment makes his place look like a dump. Compared to this man, Peter lives like Oscar the Grouch.

 

“I think I’ve got something your size – those dryers, you know –“ The man disappears into the hall to return with a blue Star-Trek hoodie and threadbare black harem pants.

He watches as Peter puts them on, as graceful as a limping turtle.

 

“Those are a bit too big, I guess,” his hands brush against Peter’s stomach when he ties the pants so they won’t fall off. Peter chokes down an indecent sound, and manages to keep Mr. Wilson oblivious to his plight as he turns to open the fridge. He hums thoughtfully as he inspects it’s content; when he bends, he gives Peter a full view of his very firm ass.

(Peter’s might be going to hell, but hey, at least it has central heating.)

“There's not much," Mr. Wilson scratches the back of his neck. "I haven’t had the chance to go for grocery shopping yet, but I make mean pancakes! What’d you say?”

 

Peter knows about  _The Pancakes_.

The ones he smells each Sunday morning when their scent drifts through his bedroom, the ones he yearns to taste as he bitterly chews the cold left-over pizza from last night or slurps cold instant noodles.

 Mr. Wilson could’ve as easily just offered him ambrosia.

 

“I – that sounds great,” he’s slightly better at articulating himself, still standing awkwardly at the entrance.

“It tastes even better! Go sit down, it’ll be just a few.”

 

Peter nods and walks to the open living room, the lush, fluffy carpet a blessing against his bare feet. He sinks down on the sofa, and can’t help but pick a brightly-coloured quilt that’s folded neatly on the cushion and huddle under it. The quilt has a pleasant, sweet smell - like it has just been recently washed. Mr. Wilson does seem like the type who won’t postpone laundry day.

His fingers and feet still feel numb, and all he wants to do is just lie down and sleep for the next three days. He takes in the bookcase, filled with titles Peter can’t read; the weird ornaments on the cabinet, from little wooden frogs to a fancy miniature English tea-set to an impressively detailed matryoshka, decorated with a picture of Moscow. The walls have a few frames at a seemingly random pattern – two of them are barely a foot from the floor. Peter guesses it’s a post-modern thing.

He slowly lets everything catch up, rubbing his hands and blowing against them. The kitchen door is open, Bach softly drifting to the living room, and he closes his eyes – just for a minute.

 

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”

He opens them to Mr. Wilson in an apron that encourages Peter to kiss the cook (and Peter really doesn’t need or want the apron’s romantic advice). The coffee table has been set for two – there’s two printed placemats with sunflowers on them, and mismatched Chinese dinner plates in white and blue. On another, bigger plate there’s a stack of thick pancakes that smell like liquid dreams mixed with Unicorn tears. There’s a glass bottle that claims to hold “100% PURE CANADIAN MAPLE SYRUP”, two type of jams, a mountain of butter and –

Peter doesn’t cry, a true achievement in the face of the large latte that’s just within reach.

 

Mr. Wilson plops next to him, grabbing a fork.   

“Dig in,” he tells Peter around a mouthful of pancake, “or I’ll feel like a bad host for not feeding you properly.”

Peter could’ve been born a mole if his energetic digging is anything to go by – he inhales the pancakes in a blur. They’re everything he’d thought they’d be and more – a manifestation of a pinnacle of culinary talent. He almost feels bad when he downs the coffee, afraid it’ll wash down the taste – but it somehow sticks into his palate.

He wipes the steam from his glasses with the hoodie, the sugar lifting his spirits and the coffee in his stomach warming him up.

 

“Here, it’ll help with your feet.”

A small plastic tub, filled with water, metalized on the carpet.

Peter pulls the pants up to his knees and hesitatingly places his feet in the water. They’re barely lukewarm, yet he hisses as his legs sting upon contact.

“Frostbites are a bitch to handle,” Mr. Wilson offers sympathetically as he clears the table.

“Want some hot cocoa to ease the pain?”

 

What Peter wants is to marry this man, and if he ever has the option – have his children.

 

“I don’t know your name,” he answers and wishes he could blame his exhaustion for his awful conversation skills.

(He needs to know the name of his potential-future-husband, though. He knows from the complex’s mail-box it starts with a W and he’s sure it’s neither William, Wilbur or Waldo.)

(He hopes it’s not Wilbur. His tastebuds already don’t care if it is.)

                                                                                                                                    

“It’s Wade,” Thankfully-Not-Wilbur answers, “I told you when you first moved in, Petey. Really, I’m wounded.”

“I’m… I’m sor–“

Wade ruffles his hair like he’s three but Peter doesn’t care because his hand is so warm.

“Kidding, kidding! I totally forgot to introduce myself, I can’t believe it!” Wade chuckles, and the sound is warm, too.

 

“So, Mr. Parker,” he sits down next to Peter, handing him a towel for his feet and the promised beverage, still wearing the apron. “We have three hours till sunrise, and I don’t know ‘bout you but there’s no way I’m sleeping with that amount of caffeine in my system. I’m thinking a movie?”

 

As Wade’s neighbour, Peter knows he favors boring action movies – he can hear the gunshots from upstairs almost every other night. Wade’s surround system is pretty impressive – it makes it all sound so real, sending vibration through the thin plaster walls. ‘ _Weird’,_ Peter thinks as he glances to the upper corners of the living room, that he can’t spot any speakers –

“Any favorites?” Wade asks, cutting into his line of thought.

“Dreamworks?” Peter dares.

“You’re a man after my own heart, Mr. Parker,” Wade fakes a swoon, and Peter’s heart skips a beat.

*

The last three hours has been the best three hours Peter had in the last year.

They watch ‘Rise of the Guardians’ together.  
Barely two minutes in, it becomes clear Wade isn’t a ‘Silent Watcher’, which works great, because Peter isn’t one, either. It’s so very rare to meet a person who doesn’t mind his comments – so Peter comments about the graphics and the landscapes. Wade offers background from the books, but not in an annoying critical way – rather, he tries to lure Peter into reading them.

 

Then there’s Antarctica.

“That’s a mean way to turn down a marriage proposal.” Wade sounds genuinely upset.

‘ _Please don’t turn out to be a psycho serial killer_ ,’ Peter prays.

 

By the end of it Peter finds the flow of conversation between them much easier. Wade’s not only funny, he’s remarkably knowledgeable. Peter learns about the origions of Santa Claus and what causes the Northern Lights. He gets the feeling Wade could make any topic sound fascinating with the luring bass of his voice and the excited flow of his limbs.

 

Peter can’t help but feeling disappointed when the sun finally creeps through the curtains and Wade hands him his phone so he could call the locksmith.

“Going so soon?” Wade teases, “You haven’t even had breakfast yet!”

Peter chuckles. “Maybe next time?” he catches himself a second too late – feeling foolish and stupid and oh god he can’t believe he just said that –

“Next time,” Wade agrees easily.  
There must be butterflies – or maybe wasps – in Peter’s stomach. Everything is just so easy with Wade.

 

The apartment is warm enough so Peter takes off the hoodie and hands it to Wade.

“I can’t thank you enough –“ Peter starts,

“You could give me your first born?”

“ – for everything, from having me here, to your hospitality, to the pancakes, and for that first time, when I just moved in and you helped me unpack, I never – thank you, Wade, really. You’re a life saver.”  
The man snorts a laugh, probably thinking Peter to be a bit over-emotional.

“That’s my specialty,” the man seems very amused as he walks to see him out.

“See you around, baby-boy.”

 

Feeling bold by the magical combination of his brain freezing then running on fumes and caffeine together with specks of sleep deprivation and sexual frustration, Peter, for the first time in his life, goes for it.

“You could see me tomorrow evening.”

He cringes as soon as it leaves his mouth. Smooth, Parker. As smooth as sandpaper. God why did he even, he is so bad at this, Wade’s just so much – so much more than he is – wealthier (not like that’s really hard) and sexier and stronger and he’s like a walking Wikipedia and he knows how to cook and doesn’t choke on preservatives on his dinners – he’s a man who got his life together and Peter’s just some ratty boring poor college student and there’s no way –

 

“It’s a date.”

 

 

(Peter really hopes it is.)

 

*****

**I take everything I said back. You’ve made a true believer out of me.**

_Tip hat to you, good sir._

“Take that hat and eat it, losers,” Wade grins, staring at the door, nose pressed deep into a printed Enterprise.

  

He knew breaking the lock was only a job half-done, but if he’d known it’d be that easy, he would've started that fire eons ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Wo Rauch Ist' is German for 'Where There's Smoke' (There's Fire).  
> Or so, at least, Google Translate tells me.
> 
> If you're a Wilbur - sorry! Nothing wrong with Wilburs.
> 
> All feedback is greatly appreciated :)
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!


	2. Ist Feuer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snippet of Wade's impression of Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pretty much done, but Boston asked to see the events from Wade's perspactive. Due to the fact I've read Boston's comment in a strange episode of giddiness, this was somehow written.
> 
> And so the G-rating of this piece fades into the void.  
> Heads up for violence and mild sexual content (or probably the closest thing to it I'll ever post).
> 
> (Hehe, got it? Heads.) 
> 
> Also this story is now with [ADORABLE ART ](http://honoramma.tumblr.com/post/108485024766/a-while-ago-i-read-this-fic-by-capsing-and-im-not) by the wonderful [Honoramma](http://honoramma.tumblr.com)❤~

Wade is not exactly what you would call an upstanding citizen.

He doesn’t recycle, regards street lights as a friendly suggestion and never has any change to spare.

Wade, however, does value small things – and so he never plays loud music when normal people prefer to sleep, holds the door open for the person behind him, and above all – he cleans up after his own mess. In his line of work, you can’t expect someone else to do it for you.

 

It doesn't take long before Wade finds out who's behind the leaking garbage bags. 

 

When Mr. Miller keeps leaving those disgusting, sticky, _filthy_ puddles all over the staircase and the floors and the lobby – after Wade tried to talk to him about it numerous times, he realises he doesn’t really have a choice. It’s a sign of sloppiness Wade can’t be associated to in any way.

So he slips in through the bedroom window with its broken lock – and smothers Mr. Miller in his sleep with his own pillow.

 _Should've used that new dagger_ , the white box complains as he checks for a pulse. _That was such a cliché._

The mere thought of Mr. Miller's blood on his possessions makes Wade's own blood boil.

He shuts the window behind him when he leaves.

 

It takes about a week and a half before the superintendent finally brings himself to call someone to check about the smell.

Wade offers Mrs. Álvarez a tissue as they watch the paramedics take the body away, the black bag blocking the stench of decay.

She politely refuses; Wade wants to pin her down and cut her runny nose off –

 

He tucks the tissue back into his pocket.

*

 

Wade doesn’t expect anything from the building; he's been to many of its kind. It’s a cheap place in a seedy neighbourhood, and the tenants are as such. Wade himself only needs running water, electricity and a clean lobby; anything else is just a nice bonus. He never knows when his next job will come up, how long it would take; so there’s no point burning money on rent.

 

It's a pleasent surprise when the building ends up offering him such a bonus; maybe it believes in all that Karma-bullcrap and that's its way to thank Wade for his efforts.

 

Wade heads out to buy milk when he first meets Peter Parker, a scrawny, meek guy which stirs something inside his gut when he speaks. Wade barely lifts a finger, but Peter keeps looking at him adoringly, like he's considering giving him a Noble prize for carrying boxes.

Wade likes that look more than he's willing to admit to himself. The Yellow box has his back on this one, too; the White one thinks Peter's a dork.

"He has a nice laugh," Wade mumbles into one of his pillows that night.

(The bed is less empty when you sleep with five pillows.)

 _You're such a sap_ , the box answers, but it doesn't deny it.

*

About three weeks after Peter moves in, Wade _accidently_ sees him bringing someone home, from his  _accidental_  observation post through his  _accidental_  binoculars. 

 **A guy** , the box coos in joy.

 _A bald one_ , the other joins in, sounding intrigued.

 

So Wade might _accidently_ see Peter give that guy what seems to be like the blowjob of the century, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded like he's posing for some fucking porn magazine –

– and get squat in return as the guy comes down his throat, tucks himself back to his pants and bids Peter goodnight.

 

“That’s just rude.” He mutters, watching Peter staring off to space for several minutes, unmoving, face blank.

 **How unbecoming** , the box huffs as Peter finally gets up, dusts off his knees and disappears into the hall.

 

Wade gets to test his new dagger, the one he’s been dying to try for weeks, now.

It cuts off limbs like butter.

 

 _Good investment_ , the box approves as he snaps the trash bag open with a flick of his wrists.

Wade's trash bags never drip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this verse, though.  
> For reals.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Trust Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858688) by [Birdie (Robin_Mask)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Birdie)




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